


Elfroot and Apples

by Zilchtastic



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dirty Talk, F/M, First Time, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, Oral Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-29 00:32:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6351784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zilchtastic/pseuds/Zilchtastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She smells like elfroot and apples, clean and herbal, tart and sweet, and he wants to see if that scent is stronger between her breasts, wants to bury his face between them and just <i>inhale</i> that scent until it fills his lungs and makes him dizzy. Her seduction is so clumsy it's almost laughable-- and the Iron Bull is falling for it hard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Elfroot and Apples

**Author's Note:**

> I write a common theme, you may have noticed if you've read my other works. I love filling in the blanks where the screen fades to black; I love describing exactly what I think may have happened in the parts we couldn't see. I'm striving for some kind of perfection here, so I try again and again.
> 
> However, it might be getting tiresome, so feel free to suggest writing prompts in the comments! I may pick one of yours to write, and I'll credit the idea to you if you want! Just make sure to include whether or not you want your pseud or name associated with my dirty smut-filled writing. XD

                                                                                              

 

For some stupid reason Iron Bull is always waiting for the Inquisitor to complain.

He meets her on the Storm Coast, in a soaking, icy rain that doesn't quite wash all the blood off from their little skirmish with the 'Vints. She's a tiny elf, so damn delicate he could pick her up one-armed, with those wild Dalish tattoos branching out under her eyes. She's got red hair, too, dark red like blood, and damn his thing for redheads-- it's making him like her already. It's shaved a little on one side, and that makes her look a little wild, too. So does the dark kohl around her eyes-- no prissy Orlesian makeup, this, but thick and black, worn to cut the sun's glare and, if he might guess, to make her pale green eyes look even bigger and fiercer. She has a thin upper lip and a fuller lower one; she looks made to pout, but she never does.

What she _does_ do is scowl a lot, especially when he keys her into the fact that he's Ben-Hassrath. She practically threatens to cut his throat herself if he doesn't run his reports past the Inquisition spymaster first. He likes that. Means she's taking this shit seriously. He'd worried, when he'd first heard of the Inquisition, that she'd be some pampered little figurehead, this Herald of Andraste, but no-- she's a fighter. Leads from the front. He likes that, a lot.

And she never complains.

The rain soaks them to the skin, chilling, and she never wishes aloud for warm clothes.

He follows her to the HInterlands to follow up on some unfinished business with a horsemaster. The ground is all fucking _rocks_ and hard earth and uneven footing, but she never once curses the pebbles in her boots or the streams they have to ford. She never complains of the bad food, just tears into her travel rations like they're a feast in Val Royeaux.

That thing on her hand glows the same weird, icy green as her eyes. He can practically _feel_ the power of it thrumming in the air when she disrupts a rift, when she pulls and tugs and finally snaps her arm back, as if she's yanking the damn thing closed. He wonders if it hurts her, that mark. If it does, she never says.

He's a fool, he realizes some time later, when they're back at Haven and she's ghosting up on her little cat-feet through the snow to say hello, to ask how Bull and the Chargers are doing. She's _Dalish_. She was born to all this, to rocky ground and forced marches and fighting just to survive. She was a hunter for her clan, a scout, a warrior-- she's used to bad weather and bad ground and little food. She flicks her knives like they weigh nothing in her tiny hands, even though they're big enough to be short swords, really. Sometimes, she carries a bow, and her shots fly straight and true.

She bags enough ram meat to feed a regiment, and when Bull compliments her on her aim she just shrugs, ducking her head a little like she's embarrassed.

"I'm used to it. Back with my clan, if I missed... Well, someone would go hungry. I couldn't afford to miss."

She can bullseye a nug at fifty paces, even though her fingertips are red and raw from the cold. She prefers the knives, though, prefers wading into a fight, bold as you please, almost reckless. Bull covers her back, watches out for her, because she throws herself into it so hard he worries she'll fall on some rabid Templar's sword. And she _does_ get hurt. All of them do. She just chugs an elfroot potion or, if it's bad enough, waits patiently for Solas or _Madame_ de Fer to heal her.

She takes a bandit sword across the ribs one fight, curses, goes down to one knee. Bull is too far away for a save. She's not going to make it, he thinks, but then she plunges a knife into the poor fool's groin. He falls away, screaming. She sways to her feet, soaked in blood.

He likes that she's willing to fight dirty.

After Haven, he starts seeing the signs. Maybe they were there all along, and he'd just ignored them; who knows? But he can read her like a book, now, and her curious looks and nervous hovering and clumsy flirting all spell out one thing: she wants to ride the Bull.

He knows damn well she doesn't know what she's asking for. If she's ever bedded someone before (and he's fairly certain that she _hasn't_ , and damn that shouldn't be so hot), it would've been nothing like what he's got in mind for her. The kitchen girls and Chantry sisters get ordered around all day; they need a relief from that, someone to make them feel like they're a little in control. Not this little Inquisitor, though; she _gives_ orders all day, decides the fates of men across Thedas, carries the weight of the world on those narrow, fragile shoulders. What she needs is someone to take that burden from her, for at least a little while.

Bull's just not sure if what he has in mind will scare her off or not.

So he keeps it neutral, even when she gets more forward, more obvious. "Maybe I can do things your sword can't," she tells him once, trying for a purr in her voice, but her eyes are wide and her cheeks are red, probably not entirely from the chilly mountain air.

Bull eyes her. "I don't know. My sword has blood grooves."

She doesn't press the issue, retreats pretty quickly after that, but she's back the next day, shy and suggestive and driving him a little crazy. She smells like elfroot and apples, clean and herbal, tart and sweet, and he wants to see if that scent is stronger between her breasts, wants to bury his face between them and just _inhale_ that scent until it fills his lungs and makes him dizzy. Her seduction is so clumsy it's almost laughable-- and the Iron Bull is falling for it hard.

"Just go for it, Chief," Krem tells him one day out on the practice field.

"What, another shield bash? Your head'll fly off if I try that again."

Krem rolls his eyes. "Not what I meant, and you know it." He wipes sweat off his forehead with the back of one hand. "I'm talking about your little Herald."

"Since when is she _my_ Herald?" Bull protests.

"If I don't miss my guess, since you two killed that dragon together in the Hinterlands and you came back here and got her so drunk she had to be carried back to her chambers." Krem grinned at him. "I lost three gold on that bet. Thought for sure you'd have her then."

Bull makes a noise in his throat, like he wants to spit. "With her that drunk? No. She needs to know what she's getting into."

Krem sobers at that. "Chief, you'll be careful with her, won't you? She's so delicate."

"That's where you're wrong, Krem." Bull raises his shield again. "She's probably the strongest woman in the world."

Krem snorts. "Then what exactly are you waiting for, an invitation? By my guess she's given you one. No one wiggles their hips that much around you unless they're asking for _something_ , Maker preserve her."

So Krem has an idea of what he's got in mind. He shouldn't be surprised. Krem's sharp, for all that he's a Vint.

Bull grunts. "Might scare her off. Even if _I_ know what she needs, _she's_ probably never even imagined it before."

"You must fancy her something awful, if you're worried about scaring her off." Krem eyes him seriously over his shield. "But she might surprise you-- if she's as strong as you say."

"That's the trouble with the strong ones," Bull mutters, almost to himself. "Sometimes they fight you, fight what you want to give them. Sometimes they don't see what they need. Pride gets in the way."

Krem shrugs, looking casual now. "Chief, you and I both know there's nothing you like more than a good fight."

Iron Bull can't really argue with that.

***

He climbs the stairs to the Inquisitor's chambers, something like nerves buzzing and jangling up and down his spine. He knows she isn't there-- she's in some meeting with her advisors, deciding more fates and reading reports and doing all the heavy official things that don't suit her one bit, his wild Dalish elf from the forest. She needs a release, and he's here to offer her one-- but she has to know what that means. He has to _make_ her know. Only she can decide, then. Bull would never, ever force her.

Picking the lock on her door is laughably easy-- he makes a mental note to tell Leliana to secure a better lock-- and then he's in her chambers for the first time.

The room is huge, without enough furniture to really fill it. There's a Ferelden-style bed, a little couch, a small desk with an overstuffed chair behind it. A fire crackles in the massive fireplace, warding off the chill from the open glass doors. Sunlight tilts into the room through stained glass made to look like trees and leaves and branches, Dalish-style. It matches the tapestries she's put up all over Skyhold, green and gold, and he likes that-- likes that little reminder of her heritage, like she's sticking it to any noble who might come in here and look down his nose at an _elf_. She has pride, all right. He hopes it won't get in the way.

He sits on her bed to wait. It's a little small beneath his bulk, but it won't be a problem, not this first time. Oh, sure, he'll show her things she's never imagined before, but he'll save the ropes and the more elaborate things for later, when she's used to the idea. And she can always buy a bigger bed.

Footsteps on the stairs, so quiet he almost misses them. He trains his expression into something neutral, something casual, as if he has all the right in the world to be here.

She walks in (and doesn't notice that her door was unlocked, a serious mistake) reading some report. When she notices him, abruptly, she drops the papers; they scatter across the floor.

"All right," he tells her, "I've seen the signs. I know you want to ride the Bull." He makes his voice deliberately casual, almost dismissive. "I can't say I blame you. Thing is, I _really_ don't think you know what that means."

She edges back a little, eyes wide, and he thinks for a moment that she'll deny it. A blush is rising high on her cheeks.

Bull stands, steps forward, lets her _really_ get an eyeful of how big he is, how powerful. She has to know. She has to understand that this won't be like sex with anyone else.

She wets her lips, pink as strawberries. He wonders if they'll be as sweet. Something in her Fade-green eyes goes hard, like she's just gotten a challenge and she can fight it like she'd fight a dragon. Bull wants to laugh, wants to pull her into an embrace then and there. Maybe the fight in her will be a good one. Maybe it'll be worth it.

He's half-hard just thinking about it.

"Why don't you show me, then?" she almost whispers back; he thinks her throat must be dry. Probably her heart is pounding like a war drum; probably she can feel her pulse all the way down to her toes. He wonders if she's feeling the electricity racing up and down her spine the way he does.

He shows her. He surges forward, captures her hands, backs her roughly against the wall. He pins her arms over her head, high enough that she has to stretch a little on tiptoe.

Her gasp is the hottest thing he's ever fucking heard-- startled, alarmed, aroused. She looks up at him, big elfy eyes so wide, pupils so blown they're just black with a thin icy ring of green. She's trembling all over, quivering like an unbroke horse getting the saddle for the first time. He wants her, bad. So close, the smell of elfroot and apples is tart-sweet and green, so that he can almost taste it on his tongue. He wants to take her like this-- But no, no. Not the first time. Not yet. She hasn't decided yet.

"Last chance," he tells her. _Tell me to go,_ he wills with his good eye, and he knows his face is serious, almost grim. _Tell me you don't want this and I'll leave._

"Please don't go," she whispers, high and breathy.

Something like triumph roars in Iron Bull's head, and he pulls her to him, clutches her close, lets her feel his growing hardness against her belly. She whimpers, and he can stand it no more-- he leans down to take her mouth. It's warm and sweet, tastes vaguely of cider and cinnamon. She parts her lips for him when he presses harder, whimpers into the kiss, trembles all over.

She's clumsy, like she's not quite sure how a kiss should work, but that's okay. Bull is more than happy to show her. He fists a handful of that red, red hair and tips her head to the side, licking into her mouth, biting at that pouty lower lip. The noises she makes are fucking _beautiful_ \-- little whimpers, moans, startled gasps. And they haven't even gotten to the _really_ good parts yet.

He guides her to the bed, one step at a time, slowed by the sweet temptation of her mouth-- he has to bend down every few paces to kiss her breathless again. "Bull," she breathes, and hearing her say his name like _that_ is enough to have him fully hard in his pants.

"I know," he says, because he does, he really does. She's eager, curious, letting him lead her in whatever direction he wants to take this. Really, there's only one way this can go. 

They get to the bed at long last; Bull pushes her down on it, and she falls with a little gasp that tugs at his heart, makes his pulse pick up the pace. He goes for the straps on her leather bodice (armor, even here, even in the heart of her own castle) and she makes a high, frightened sound. He looks up at her but she shakes her head, quickly, and moves her _own_ hands to the straps, as if to help him. She wants a little control, wants to at least decide how quickly she'll become naked, how much she'll let him see.

No.

He bats her hands away and pulls at the straps himself, fingers deceptively deft and quick. She arches under him, shaking. There are too many damn straps. Finally he's got the last one, and he spreads her shirt open wide.

No breast band. Her tits are lovely, small and high and tight, creamy-white with candy-pink nipples gone hard in the cool air. Bull swears softly at the sight. She moves her arms, as if to cover herself, and he grabs her wrists, pulling them back up over her head. "Bull!" she cries.

"Yeah, Boss?" He looks his fill while she trembles, and she turns her reddening face away in embarrassment.

"I-- This is..." She swallows audibly. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to take care of you," he says. "And you? You're going to let me do it."

She whines, high in the back of her throat. He transfers her wrists to one hand, lets the other trace her collarbone, touch so light, so gentle. She shudders.

"Touch me, please," she gasps out, after the teasing becomes too much.

He palms one of her breasts, not roughly, but firmly enough to let her know he means business. She keens at that, trembles harder, and when he lowers his head to lap at one nipple she moans long and low. He sucks it into his mouth; the smell of elfroot and apples fills his senses. He wants to drown in it.

When he bites her, she screams, a short, sharp cry. He looks up at her face; her eyes are closed, her mouth is open. She's breathing in little gasps.

"Easy," he tells her. "Breathe. You're going to hyperventillate."

"Bull," she says again, like it's the only word that makes sense anymore.

"I'm right here. I've got you. I'm not going to let you go."

She nods, but then whispers, "That hurt."

"I know. And I'm gonna do it again. I'll do other things too. I want you to feel them. I want you to lay back and feel _everything_ I do to you. Some things will hurt, but it's all a part of something bigger, okay?"

She hesitates, eyes wide, lip trembling. She bites it, then slowly, she nods.

Strong. So strong. So willing. Bull has never wanted anyone so much. He kisses his way from one breast to the other, tongue laving at the underside, which makes her shudder and arch up into his touch. He sucks a bruise into her pale skin, and she whimpers while he does it, body taut as a bowstring.

Her breeches are an annoyance; he tugs at their lacings one-handed, almost fumbling in his distraction. She wriggles her hips, maybe in eagerness, maybe to try and get away. Bull growls, lets her feel it reverberate against her skin. She stills, breathing fast again.

"I've never..." she starts, trailing off before she can put voice to the obvious.

"I know," Bull tells her again. "Don't worry about it. We have all the time in the world to explore."

It's sort of a lie-- probably someone is searching for her right now, wanting to hand over another report, ask her to solve another problem, kill more demons, gather more herbs, _something_. Bull would gut anyone who tried to interrupt now. He's been watching her struggle under the weight of responsibility for weeks, has seen how it pulls the skin tight around her mouth and eyes, making her look older, more weary. She _needs_ this, needs to let go, needs to put everything down for a while. Bull needs to be the one to help her do it.

The damnable ties on her breeches finally pull loose, and Bull slides two fingers beneath the waistband, tugging. The Inquisitor-- _Ellana_ , some distant part of his brain reminds him, her name is _Ellana_ \-- mews out something incomprehensible. She's blushing all the way down to her breasts now, flushed apple-red and appealing. He kisses his way down her belly, gently. When he flicks his tongue against her navel she jerks, ticklish, and when he blows cool air against the wetness left behind she shivers. She's so damned responsive. Bull's never been with a lover who felt everything as strongly. He's not sure if it makes him want to push her harder or not. He'd liked that little scream, before; he'd like to see if he can make her do it again. He wants to know what her voice sounds like all ragged from pleasure and pain.

But first, her boots.

He pries them off one at a time, tosses them somewhere behind him to thunk on the floor. She has pretty feet, small and delicate like the rest of her, though there are a few calluses to show where her boots have pressed uncomfortably as they've stomped through all kinds of wilderness. He smoothes his hands over them, over the soles of her feet, and she jerks them away, ticklish again. Bull grins. He'll be merciful this time, but some day he'll remember this little weakness and take full advantage.

He moves back to the waistband of her breeches, with both hands this time. He pulls.

She raises her hips to help him, wriggles as he unpeels her from the tight, ass-hugging leather. He pulls everything down, sweeps her smalls along with them, and she gasps, lies back trembling, her arms still over her head even though he's not holding her down anymore.

Maybe this won't have to be a fight at all.

Bull leans back on his heels, taking it all in. She's like a ripe fruit, all sweet temptation, daring him to lean in and have a taste. Her red curls are sparse and close-cropped, barely there at all, hiding nothing from view. She's all pink and soft and _fuck_ , wet. She's _wet_. He can smell her arousal, thick like honey and salt. And even here, she smells a little like elfroot and apples. The thought of her perfuming her thighs drives Bull absolutely _wild_.

"Spread your legs," he growls.

Her knees close inwards instead, trying to hide. "I can't!" she gasps, eyes squeezed shut. Even the tips of her pointed ears are red now.

He parts her legs for her, hands firm on her knees, and she trembles, struggles a little, tries to resist him. Bull waits. Either she'll give in or she'll tell him to get the hell out. It's her chance to decide.

Her legs go slack all at once, like the effort is suddenly too much. He spreads her legs wide, and she moans long and loud, covering her eyes with one forearm, like she can't bear to see him seeing _her_.

"Look at me," he orders, and when she hesitates he nips at the inside of her knee, none too gentle. "Hands back over your head."

She does as she's told, slowly. She stretches out her arms and looks down to meet his eye. Hers are wide, a little confused, a little dazed. She's never imagined anything like this before, he reckons.

Time to see if she likes it.

He sucks at a spot on the inside of her knee, trying to leave another mark. Something to remember this by. He works his way up slowly, so slowly, kissing the smoothness at the inside of her thighs, sucking more purple marks into her moon-pale skin. Let her remember this when she perfumes her thighs tomorrow, he thinks. Let her blush all over again at the memory.

She's whimpering by the time he gets to the apex of her thighs, and her wetness glistens, beckoning him. He just has to have a taste. He can't go a moment longer without knowing the taste of her on his tongue.

The sound she makes at the first slow touch of his tongue is strangled, and he hears the sheets rustle as she pulls at them. He licks her long and slow, lingeringly, from hole to clit and then back down again. She's shaking like she's about to come apart.

Fuck, the _taste_ of her. Sweet and salt, delicate and yet definite. He presses his mouth to her, harder, laps at her wetness, sucks hard. He wants the taste of her and the smell of her and he wants more of it, now. _Now._ She makes that strangled noise again, like she doesn't want to scream. He glances up, and she's biting her own hand, trying not to cry out. So he flicks at her clit, little teasing laps that don't let up until she's writhing on the bed and he actually has to drag an arm over her belly to hold her down.

"Let me hear you," he says, breathing the words against her hot, wet skin. "Let me hear what I'm doing to you."

He sucks on her clit then, firm and unrelenting, and she cries out, over and over, louder each time until she's practically sobbing. He pulls back a little, eases up, and she shudders, slumps, goes practically ragdoll with relief. "Too much?" he asks her.

"I don't know," she gasps, ragged, and just like he thought, she sounds so good. "I've never-- Is it always like this? I think I was going to... I was so close to..."

"Mm," he agrees. She'd been right on the edge.

"Why did you stop?" she asks, and Bull chuckles.

"Why?" he repeats. "Because this is lesson number one: you come when _I_ want you to."

She shakes her head, eyes wide and disbelieving. She wets her lips. "Please," she whispers.

"Please what?"

She hides her face in her hands, so he slaps her thigh, hard and stinging. She shouts, startled.

"Hands above your head," he reminds her, firmly.

When she obeys, he asks her, "What do you want?"

"I want... I want to..." She can barely force the words out. Her shyness now is weirdly hot. "Please, Bull, please."

"Gonna have to be specific." He slides a finger through the wetness of her cunt, and she lifts her hips like she's begging for more contact. He sucks the finger into his mouth while she watches and trembles.

"I want to come," she finally breathes in a rush. "Bull, please, let me come. I... I need it. Please."

"You ever pleasure yourself before? Make yourself come?" he asks.

She looks away, ashamed. "I... Yes. But it was nothing like this. This is... More. Everything more." She bites her trembling lower lip again.

Bull smiles. "What if I told you no? What if I said you couldn't come? What if I said you couldn't touch yourself, either? That only I could touch you?"

She whimpers high in her throat. "You wouldn't. You can't."

"I can. And you'd obey me. You know why?"

She looks at him again, eyes almost fearful.

"Because I'd have to punish you if you didn't. That's how this is going to go, Inquisitor. You obey. You obey, and you trust me to make you feel good. You trust me to make you feel fucking _amazing_. All you have to do is follow orders like a good girl."

"I don't understand," she whispers.

"You will." He kisses her thigh, right at the place where it joins her hip. "I'll teach you everything you need to know. And the first lesson is that what I say in this room goes."

"You're cruel," she says, shivering. "I've never... I didn't know it would be like this."

"Are you afraid?" he asks her.

She scowls then, defiant. Proud. There's the fight, there's that look that can slay as well as her daggers, a growing rage filling her unnaturally green eyes. He thinks maybe she'll spit at him, or tell him to leave.

Instead, she swallows hard and, still scowling, says "Yes."

Bull smiles up at her, so proud. She's too fucking brave for words. "And?"

"And I still want you to make me come."

His chest fills to bursting with pride. His little elf Inquisitor, so delicate, so strong. So afraid but so willing, so eager. She wants this. The fear sharpens her desire, he knows, makes it a knife-edge to walk. He wants to tip her the right way, tip her headlong into the pleasure that this game can bring. He's going to do it. He's going to leave her confused and aroused and aching for more. Next time, she'll come to him. Next time, she'll ask him for this. He knows it.

He licks a slow line up her cunt again, tongue flat against her skin, and she groans. Her hands fist in the pillows above her head. "Please," she sobs, "please."

He likes it when she begs like that, so he nibbles at her clit, bites at her pussy-lips just sharp enough to have her riding that knife-edge of pleasure and pain again. Her hips jerk, trying to get him back where she wants him. Her toes curl. She's drawn so tight she might just snap.

He takes pity on her. He sucks at her clit again, tongue flicking, and doesn't relent until she's crying out, beautiful gasps and moans that spiral higher and higher like a song. Her thighs quiver; she's so close. Her runs a finger around her opening, just playing with the soft wetness there, but apparently it's enough to send her over the edge; the bowstring finally twangs, and with it her release. Her cries are so damn lovely to hear, so helpless, so consumed by pleasure. It's easily the best sex he's ever had, and he hasn't even touched his own cock. He feels dizzy, knowing what he's done to her, what he's made her feel.

She comes down slowly, jerking a little every time he gives her another slow lick, whimpering at the overstimulation. He's tempted to keep going, to see if he can coax another orgasm out of her, but she's breathing so hard and shaking so hard and it's plain to see that she's exhausted. He gives her one last, slow lap of his tongue, then sits up on his heels again.

She stays sprawled just as he leaves her, legs spread wide, too weary for shame now. She looks like she's seeing something hazy and far away; her expression is dazed and yet somehow euphoric. She lets out a long sigh that ends in something like a sob; there are tears at the corners of her eyes.

Bull rubs her skin, massages her overstrained thighs with careful hands. "You okay, Boss? You hearing me? Can you talk?"

"Mmn," she manages, voice rough.

Bull gets to his feet, ignoring the cramp in his leg, and pours her out a glass of some light, fruity wine that smells vaguely like apples from the table by the couch. He has to help her sit up, and when she finally does her hands are shaking too badly and he has to hold the cup to her lips so she can drink it. She makes another noise, grateful-sounding. Her eyelids are beginning to droop.

"Lie back," he tells her. "Rest a bit. When you're ready, I'll show you more."

She just looks up at him, considering. That defiant look is creeping back. Krem was right. There's nothing Iron Bull loves more than a good fight.

"What if I'm never ready?" she challenges.

He shrugs. "No harm, no foul. But you liked this. You want to know what comes next."

"Do I?"

He smirks. "Mm-hmm. Maybe even more than you know. Come to me when you're ready. I'll show you things your body won't believe."

She sort of glares at him, but sleep is dragging her down too quickly. He helps arrange her under the covers and turns to leave.

"Bull?" Her voice, small and unsure, stops him.

"Yeah, Boss?"

"What about you...?"

He grins. "Next time. If you're good. If you follow orders. I'll give you everything you never knew you needed."

Her look now is measuring. She snuggles deeper beneath the covers, eyes sliding closed.

He's at the door when she calls to him again, voice sleepy and faint.

"We'll see," is all she says. Bull can't help but grin.

_We'll see._ He gives it a day, maybe two, before her curiosity gets the best of her and she's back at his comfortable corner in the Herald's Rest, asking things that turn her pearly cheeks pink again.

He can hardly wait.


End file.
